Récit Divide.

The Tour Divide as a race was created in 2008 by Scott Morris. The route crosses the USA from north to south, following the watershed divide: to the east, rainwater flows into rivers and streams that empty into the Atlantic Ocean; to the west, rainwater flows into the Pacific Ocean. These were the beginnings of the ultra-endurance cycling races we know today. This 4400km race has 45,600 meters of ascent. The route is highlighted by long dirt roads and jeep trails that wind their way through the forgotten passes of the Continental Divide.

It crosses the Canadian provinces of Alberta and British Columbia, and the U.S. states of Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico, an immersion in American history. It moves through the remote backcountry with the density of Grizzly and Mountain Lion. Riders must also find shelter each night or bivouac by the trail.

Developed and mapped in 1997 by the Adventure Cycling Association, this race is considered by many to be the birthplace of bikepacking. It starts in Banff, Alberta, in the Canadian Rockies, and ends in Antelope wells on the Mexican border.

No entry fee, no podium, no prize money, just a letter of motivation to be sent to an e-mail address after the winter solstice.

The stars of the sport line up for the event every year, as the Tour Divide is a very closely followed race in the USA, with many dotwatchers and trail angels on hand in some places to provide coolers filled with victuals for the runners. It’s important to do your homework beforehand, as the route rarely passes through towns, sometimes 200km outside civilized networks, making it difficult to get food and water.

The current record for the event is held by Justinas Leveika, who completed the journey in 13 days in 2024, breaking the record held by legend Mike Hall since 2016.

As for why I decided to take part in the event, it’s a bit hazy in my head, but I think it was the thirst for adventure and the “old-fashioned” aspect that appealed to me. The fact of crossing the United States and discovering this variety of landscapes is something that appeals to me enormously.

Having no experience of ultra-distance racing, it’s with the experience of my previous cycling trips that I’m embarking on this adventure. I’m lucky enough to start with a super titanium Gravel from my partner CHIRU, model FUKAÏ. For the occasion, I’ve replaced the original fork with one with 100mm travel for greater comfort. Looking at the entry list, I realize that among the 200 participants, names like Lael Wilcox ( 15-day women’s title holder and record holder of the world bike tour ) Svein Tuft ( former professional road racer ) , Robin Gamperle ( contender and favorite for this year’s title ), Joe Nation ( winner of the Silk Road Mountain Race )… will take the start of the Divide.

“An adventurous minority will always be eager to go out on their own, and no obstacle should be placed in their way; let them take risks, for God’s sake, let them get lost, sunburned, stranded, drowned, eaten by bears, buried alive under avalanches – it’s the right and privilege of every free American.”
– Ed Abbey

The alarm goes off early, but I’ve already been awake for a long time, stirred by a mixture of excitement and fear. Outside, it’s raining. The smell of hot coffee wafts through the room as I finish preparing my bike. The moment seems unreal.

My bus dropped me off the day before at the youth hostel high above Banff… and suddenly I’m thrown back ten years. Banff was our first adventure with Marine, in 2017. Coming back here overwhelms me. The images affluent: the walks, the snow-capped peaks, the elk crossed in the early morning, the gentle beginnings.

At the hostel, the atmosphere is electric. Cyclists from all over the world are busy. It’s here that I meet Seb, a Frenchman from Lille, the kind of guy with whom you feel you’re going to share more than just a few pedal strokes. We ride down to the city center together. The tension mounts. On the start line, it’s a real lineup of stars: Lael Wilcox, imposing and inspiring, but also Robin Gamperle, whom I don’t know yet, but who chooses to stand right next to me… What I don’t know then is that he will become the future winner. All around us, Crazy Larry is bustling about in front of the hotel, true to his reputation, making riders and spectators laugh with his eccentric look.

Then comes the big start. The sound of wheels clattering in a tension-laden silence. I don’t know exactly what I’m getting myself into, but I’m here, and I’m pedaling. I set off with my wave, without trying to understand, just following the others, carried by the flow.

We soon leave the asphalt of the town center and enter a forest trail with a fairytale feel. The clouds have given way to glorious sunshine. Only a few hours after the start, I discover the first trail angel, a benevolent and generous trail angel. An outstretched hand in the vastness. He offers us doughnuts, coffee and water on the side of the trail. I get t o know this race as I pedal along.

Unaccustomed to riding with a SPOT beacon, I placed it in my rear fanny pack, a mistake that could have cost me disqualification. After a short technical descent through the woods, I stopped and put my hand on my banana, only to discover that I’d lost my beacon. Turning back was out of the question, as I had a one-in-100 chance of finding it in this dense undergrowth.

I continue on my way and hear a shout about fifty metres behind me.
“Hey oh, is it you who’s lost your beacon?”
“You’d better fix it to your extensions,” he says.

Phew, what a relief, a cyclist named John found it in the middle of the trail. I’ve been given a second chance.

On this first day of the race, I ride 160 kilometers with 2200 D+, stopping to spend the night on a riverside meadow. It’s a strategic spot because it’s at the foot of the famous KOKO Claims, a 9-kilometer portage with 730 D+, a real wall in the rock. I prefer to tackle it tomorrow morning after a night’s rest and plenty of energy in my legs.

I wake up at first light and from my tent I can hear the zippers of the neighboring tents opening.

Several other competitors have opted for the same plan as me, including Alan, a British man in his sixties. His well-laden bike contains everything he needs for this adventure, a stove, a set of cutlery and a panoply of freeze-dried meals, and Alan enjoys a good breakfast before facing these Koko Claims, which we’re all a little apprehensive about. Before setting off, I take the opportunity to fill my water bottles with fresh water directly from the river next to the camp.

Indeed, after driving 5 kilometers on a false flat uphill through the forest, I see a path strewn with huge pebbles standing in front of me . no doubt it’s KOKO. I take off my shoes and start the climb, pushing my bike as best I can through this river of pebbles. Soon the thermometer was rising and my heart was racing – a real early-morning ordeal. Bike on my back, I move slowly forward, each step a struggle. I imagine the scene in the rain or snow, like last year’s edition, must be a real ordeal. But we’re lucky, at least the weather’s nice.

Now that we’ve finished with Alberta, British Columbia is opening up and passing under my wheels. A vast, rugged, incredibly beautiful land. Every turn in this majestic forest gives me the impression of entering another world – ancient, almost sacred. There’s a living silence here, made up of rustles, distant creaks and the wind blowing through the treetops. And I, tiny as I am, melt into it with respect.

I’m dreaming. Literally. Part of me hopes to come across a mountain lion, to catch a glimpse of its stealthy, sovereign silhouette in the distance. And I see him. Fleetingly, between the trunks. My heart races… but nothing. Just my mind playing tricks on me. Tiredness, the intensity of the place… or perhaps the deep desire to feel even more than what reality already offers.

The terrain changes. Fernie approaches. A town nestled between passes still covered in snow, even in midsummer. The climb is rough, cold, mineral. Then comes the descent, so long that I lose track of time. But something’s wrong. I brake… b a r e l y . My brake pads are dead, consumed by the weight of the bike, the slope and my hands taped to the levers, my over-cautiousness. Worse still, my pistons have seized up. I grit my teeth and make my way to Fernie’s bike shop, hoping they can quickly fix my problem so I can get back on the road quickly. During the repair, I give myself a break. A latte, hot, frothy, perfect. Nothing seems more precious to me at this moment. I sit on the café’s small terrace, close my eyes and take a deep breath. This simple cup becomes a suspended moment, an absolute luxury in an adventure that pushes me to the essential. I sit there, looking at the mountains and savoring them.

Repaired. Reassembled. It’s late but the sky is still clear. I set off again at the end of t h e day, with the rare sensation that my legs are responding wonderfully. The body, despite the miles, seems to be awakening. I soon catch up with another runner. His name is Dallas Hamilton, Australian, in his forties, solidly built. We ride together for a while. We talk about everything. The kind o f simple but sincere exchange between two souls sharing the same struggle.

Then comes another pass. I can see him slowing down, wincing. The souffle becomes short. I hesitate for a moment, out of politeness or solidarity, but I know what I have to do. The night won’t wait for me. I pick up my pace, thank Dallas for this most pleasant conversation and swallow the last few laces, and rise a little higher, alone again, under the dewy sky. Tonight I’ll be pitching my tent on the edge o f a path, next to a stream, always an important place to fill up with water and wash up.

Once I’ve zipped up my sleeping bag, I go about my daily routine, taking out my little notebook and jotting down a few key words summarizing my day on the bike. Then it’s bedtime.

Today I’m hoping to cross the American border, but first I’ll have to tackle a tough one, another “hike a bike” portage called “The Wall”, a hellish climb so steep it seems unreal. Remember KOKO Claims, that famous portage in Alberta, “The Wall” is its little brother!

Shorter, at around 300 metres, but with the steepest slope and slickest, muddiest terrain, it can be a living hell in wet conditions. Fortunately, once again, Mother Weather is on our side.

To get to “the wall” we juggle forest tracks and single tracks, the stigmata of last winter making itself felt: countless fir trees have fallen across the path under the weight of the snow. This makes for slow progress, as I have to get off the bike and hoist it over each trunk littering the ground.

At the junction of a single track, I bump into Toro, a fellow Japanese rider. His face is scarred but peaceful. My bike is acting up, a mechanical problem before I even start the portage. Another brake pad problem, my pistons no longer do their job and don’t retract into the caliper when I release the brake lever, so they permanently press the pads against the brake disc, causing premature wear.

Without hesitation, Toro sits down beside me and takes the time to help me repair, methodical and calm. No superfluous words, just the mechanics of supportive gestures. Maybe that’s the beauty of Divide: you’re alone, but never completely alone.

And then we go. Each to his own rhythm, each to his own struggle. Bike on back, every step an effort. “The Wall” isn’t just a physical passage – it’s a symbol. A wall inside me that I’m beginning to cross, stone by stone, root by root, souffle by souffle. I’m following big drops, the effort is real. The weight of the bike accentuating that.

That’s it, the frontier approaches. The invisible line between two worlds. I leave Canada with the wonder of the first few kilometers in my legs… and an already dull fatigue. At US Border, a building lost in the middle of nowhere , the silence is almost heavy. I always have this slight anxiety at customs posts, as if something were going to go wrong, especially since Donald Trump’s re-election. But the policeman is surprisingly friendly, almost curious about my approach. He stamps my passport with a smile and wishes me good luck. This simple gesture, this benevolent tone, restores a little faith in what I’m doing.

I continue on to Eureka, a typical Montana town set like a mirage between two valleys. I take a mental inventory: food, water, refills, everything needs to be optimized. Because here, supplies are strategic. You never know when you’ll come across the next grocery store or the next tap. Every oversight is paid for in cash. So I take my time and make the right choices. And then I indulge in a big, dripping burger, too salty, too fatty – perfect.

The night was a torment. Sweaty, stifling heat… and above all, hundreds of mosquitoes that managed to infiltrate my tent. Their buzzing became an obsession. Impossible to sleep, I scratched, I pestered, I tried to plug the gaps without success. It was a horrible night, punctuated by jolts and jitters.

Next to me, Patrick, a young Canadian from New Brunswick, is also suffering from insect infestation. We laugh a little about our misery in the morning. Patrick and I don’t know it yet, but we’ll be following each other for a good part of the trip. I’d bumped into him in Fernie’s Bikeshop, having just broken the zippers on his frame bag and hoping to find a new one in the store. He’s one of those fellow travelers you don’t choose, but appreciate all the more. Shortly after daybreak, I come across my first hares: Snowshoe Hares, white as snow, silent as spirits. Real living stuffed animals, lost in this green immensity. Then come the deer, in great numbers. They barely move away as I pass. Wilderness is everywhere, present, calm but powerful. Still a little dented by the night, I let myself be carried towards the town of Whitefish, which appears at the end of a long ribbon of asphalt. A little pearl of Montana, surrounded by mountains and pines. Before we get there, we skirt a magnificent turquoise lake.

I stop at the first friendly-looking bar and order a juicy, salty, rich pulled-pork burger – and a tall glass of Coca-Cola, just what I need. Every bite seems to repair a cell.

I feel like I’ve found my rhythm, my inner tempo. But the day is not over. The sweltering heat forces me to stop in Columbia Falls, just a couple of hours after Whitefish, where a huge supermarket catches my eye. I head for the ice cream aisle and grab a tub of Ben & Jerry ice cream, which I promptly devour. The accumulation of fatigue, lack of sleep, heat and miles means my energy is melting like snow in the sun.

The odometer reads 170 km today. I’m tired, of course, but happy with the pace, it’s still early and I’d like to ride into the night, I’ve set myself 220km for today and take advantage of the good weather to camp on the road, a village lies 3km off the route, I have to go there to fill my panniers with provisions, I d o n ‘t have much for tonight’s dinner and breakfast.

This little village is Seeley Lake, and as is often the case, this kind of detour reveals another face of the race: that of camaraderie. On the foodtruck tables, ice creams, tall glasses of fresh Coca-Cola, burgers. It’s the perfect “Divider” outfit. Of course, I join them. These shared stops are a breath of fresh air in the hustle and bustle of the road.

Before setting off again, I make a video call to Gabriel, a friend from Quebec who did the Divide last year. He made a 2.5-hour film about it, a sincere, intense work. Gabriel is kindness incarnate. Even from a distance, he accompanies me. That evening, he guided me by video to clean my brake pistons, which were crippling me on every descent I made. He calmly explains and reassures me. This breakdown is probably the cause of my prematurely worn brake pads.

I arrive in Ovando at night, and here’s the disappointment: I’d so much liked to discover this little village by day. Straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie, century-old buildings nestled against the magnificent valley floor with the Swan and Garnet mountains rising from its rim. It’s in the heart of the Blackfoot River Valley, and as you stroll through the streets, you’ll pass through a piece o f Montana history and culture. Its saloon, in the center of the village, is closed.

A wolfiote is still lit on the terrace and I can hear people sniggering from the other side of the building. I step forward and see 4 friends standing around a bucher, beer in hand, offering me to join them. I’d love to, but I’ve still got some riding to do, so I happily ask them to fill my water bottles before thanking them and getting back in the saddle.

I turn on my flashlight, it’s cool and so pleasant. I’m riding at a good pace on the corrugated iron surface so characteristic of this region, on my right a tent and a bike are next to the path, long straight stretches follow, and my GPS tells me that a pass is approaching, I start to climb and decide to stop for a few hours, throw away my ground sheet and sleeping bag, too tired to unfold the tent and move my food away to avoid a potential bear visit, I collapse and put the Bear spray next to me, within easy reach.

A few hours later, I finally discover the mythical Lama Ranch. An emblematic spot on the Divide, almost sacred for cyclists. John and Barbara, the owners, have created a haven of peace, with their little cabins nestled in a clearing and their llamas strolling quietly through the garden. Barbara provides tools, a fridge stocked with cold drinks and sandwiches whose reputation extends far beyond the border. It’s a precious, generous stopover. I take advantage of this break to change my brake pads, with the satisfaction of having anticipated.

The day looked peaceful. But it turned into a nightmare.

The track becomes chaotic, full of rocks, jolts and brutal descents. The weight of the bike doesn’t help. I feel a strange resistance… then a void. My rear wheel spins in the void. I try to pedal, but nothing sticks. At first, I think it’s a derailleur problem. I stop everything, turn the bike over, get out my tools. Then it hit me: the thread on my thru axle is broken. The axle is now too short, and no longer grips the frame. A clean mechanical fracture.

Steve, a friend from Colorado, is passing by. He sees me on foot, bike in hand. We try a m a k e s h i f t repair. All in vain. There’s nothing we can do, not here, not with this. I’ve got 30 kilometers to go to Helena. On foot? Do I really have a choice? After a l l , that’s what I’m here for, too – the hassles are part of the adventure. My mind holds firm. I estimate that at 4 km/h, it will be an eight-hour walk. As the hours go by, I progress at my own pace, passing cows and calves who look at me with disdain, and rightly so. Everyone passes me. The heat is unbearable.

The day quickly descends into difficulty. Fleecer Ridge looms up in front of me: it’s a fearsome single track, with negative gradients approaching -52%, according to my counter. There’s no need to be a hero here – I continue on foot, bike in hand, concentrating on every support. The rain doesn’t help matters. Driving, cold and constant, it drives me to find shelter under a coniferous tree. A brief but welcome shelter.

It’s 6am. Day has not yet lifted its curtain over the mountains. I put on cuffs, leggings, winter gloves and a choker – the uniform of a cold-weather survivor. The thermometer reads -4°C. I clip my pedals in total, almost solemn silence. The world stands still, snow sprinkles the heights of the pass, the air is still. It’s cold, yes, but the atmosphere is magical, as if space has been emptied of all agitation.

The descent to Dillon brings me back to reality. The cold is still biting, but in the valley, a gravel race is taking place. The atmosphere changes: cheering, shouting, the peloton on the move. Suddenly, a man in his sixties slows down as I pass. He looks at me, smiles:

“Hey, are you doing the Tour Divide?!”

Without warning, he pulls out his phone, takes a selfie with me, all the while riding. Here I am, transformed into an unlikely star, with my ugly mug, dusty windbreaker and soaked panniers. I laugh inwardly. My poor looks are becoming the stuff of legend. That’s the Divide too: a mixture of derision and raw respect.

Further on, an encounter I won’ t forget. Jesse, 70 years old, riding a tank on wheels. He worked 30 years as a prison guard, and now he’s here, on the Divide, for “the fun”, he tells me.

He gave up everything: told his wife he was leaving, his son bought him a GPS, but he didn’t know how to use it until the day of the Great Departure. Steve exudes joie de vivre, and his desire for freedom goes viral.

We ride together for dozens of kilometers. Jesse’s the type to get out his paper map despite the latest technology on his hanger. He likes to know where he is, really, not just an icon on a screen.

“There’s a village three kilometers away, let’s go and see if we can get a bite to eat,” he tells me in thick American whose every other word I catch.

Missed. The only restaurant in the village seems frozen in time, abandoned. Like many of the places we’ve passed through here. Deep America, the one that lives in silence, between the faded walls of another century. Both disappointed to be leaving on an empty stomach, we head for Lima, Jesse starting to slow down. His bike seems to weigh as much as his age. Before we part, he says to me, half-seriously, half-jokingly, with a twinkle in his eye:

“If you find me dead tonight, tell them you knew me.” without a word, I look at him and give him a polite smile, I’ve got a lot of respect for this guy. I get back on the road, my heart a little tight. Those sentences stick.

Later, in Bannock Canyon, a dirt track winds through sparse vegetation, like a road drawn in pencil on a canvas of ochre and green. Here I see Trevor again, as solid as ever and always up for a chat. Together, we head for Lima, where I plan to spend the night.

Yellowstone never disappoints: colorful geysers, surreal fumaroles, burning, bubbling earth on the ground. The most visited park in the United States, and yet… there’s still plenty of room to feel alone in the world. On an isolated dirt track, a stopped buggy immediately makes me sit up and take notice. In this setting, when a vehicle stops for no reason, it’s often for a bear. I slow down.

I stop, smile, take the ritual photo. One more step in this disproportionate journey. A spectacular trail, perched high above the park, leads me along a winding river, softwood forests as far as the eye can see, a horizon sculpted by water, rock and fire.

This is the immensity of Yellowstone. A land of giants, beasts and silence. At the end of the day, I arrive at Flag Ranch, a small campground close to the main road. The host tells me everything is full. I explain my situation, he thinks it over, then says: – You can sleep in the lobby if you like. There’s a sofa at the entrance. You won’t be bothering anyone here. I thank him. This kind of gesture is like a miracle after a long day. The lobby door opens and familiar faces reappear: Jim, Patrick, Thomas Lane, the young Austrian couple. Then Michael, the German. All there, all arriving in scattered order. Jim, smarter than all of us, had reserved a cabin in advance. He offered to share it with us. Seven cyclists in two beds. I’ll be sleeping on the ground, in my comforter, but with that feeling of great luxury, of being safe, warm and in good company. Michael pulls a warm can of beer from his bag:

– Shall we celebrate?

And in this simple moment, in this cabin full of snores, muffled laughter, wet soles… I tell myself that the Tour Divide is also about that: Mud, bears, improvised bivouacs, and then… evenings of grace.

We leave Strawberry Cabin in the early hours of the morning, still a little numb from this enchanted interlude. A night under a warm roof, surrounded by familiar faces, is rare, and we know we’ll be thinking about it for a long time to come.

But the road takes over again. Sore thighs, raw hamstrings – an immediate return to reality. I apply a generous dab of chamois butter, a gesture that has become as automatic as it is vital. The pain? It will pass.

“Pain is fleeting.”

That’s the discreet mantra that accompanies me every time my body screams louder than my will.

In the distance, at dawn, the coyotes sing. A wild concerto, strange, almost unreal – but I listen to it with pleasure, like a last offering from nature before hitting the road again. The previous day’s companions each take their own direction, their own pace, their own way of experiencing this adventure. It’s often like that on the Divide: goodbyes aren’t said. They come naturally. I find myself alone on a straight, monotonous road, with its corrugated iron sheets that shake both the bike and the spirit. I don’t much like these roads: too civilized, too predictable. The magic fades a little, but it will always return.

I ride through an immense, flat agricultural zone, where cowboys sit in the back of their pickups, silently eating a snack. Time here is slow, dusty. But suddenly, the quietude is shattered: A huge 4×4 overtakes another 4×4, at full speed, and straight at me, while a cow parks in the middle of the road. The scene is surreal. I have to get out of the way, get down on the side of the road, pedal over the stones to avoid the impact. The cow’s doing fine. So am I. But a cloud of dust engulfs me – their way, no doubt, of welcoming me to Wyoming.

I arrive in Pinedale, a small town that stands like a sluice between two worlds. An ice cream, a trip to the laundromat, a bit of soap, a bit of hygiene. I’ve only got two shorts. I spin. I wash. I dry. These details may seem insignificant, but they’re vital: the slightest infection can put an end to this adventure. At the laundromat, I bump into Jim again – the guy who had generously opened his cabin a few days earlier. He smiles and we exchange a few words. Nothing spectacular, but it’s here, in these silent encounters, that the fraternity of this race is woven. Before leaving the launderette, I take a look at Trackleaders. Patrick’s little badge is active, and I can see him progressing towards Great Basin. Tomorrow, it’s my turn. A big chunk. A world of emptiness, wind and infinite horizon that I can’t wait to discover.

But tonight I’m still here, in this corner of Wyoming, running a washing machine, repairing a tired body and mind.